


Lines

by Gaffsie



Series: Lines [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-12 05:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16866877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaffsie/pseuds/Gaffsie
Summary: Jughead's off to risk his life again, and FP crosses a line or two (or five) to keep him safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=644172#cmt644172): "Furious FP grabbing Jughead by the face and shoving him against something, angry with his insolent little boy, maybe Juggie needs a good humiliating spank. Jughead aware that having his bare ass spanked by his Dad at this age in particular is DEFINITELY NOT OK but he's way too small to fight him off."

There's nothing new about his dad showing concern by roughly grabbing Jughead's chin, his thick fingers digging into his skin. It's not something that other dads do, perhaps, but Jughead's used to it. His dad is just very passionate, is all. He worries about Jughead, wants what's best for him. If he sometimes expresses that by pushing him around, or grabbing onto his face in a way that leaves bruises, then it's okay – or maybe not _okay_ precisely, but it's _their_ normal. It's not like with Reggie, who turns up at school with mysterious bruises and black eyes sometimes.

It's just proof that he cares. Precious few people care about Jughead, but his dad does, and that's something.

This though? This is crossing a line.

He's attached a handcuff to Jughead's wrist, mumbling something about this being for Jughead's own good, and while he's still confused, because where the fuck did the cuffs come from, he drags him to the living room. Jughead tries to push him off, tries to break his grip, but his dad is a lot stronger than he is, so he only succeeds in slowing him down a little before the inevitable happens. 

He doesn't understand what his dad's goal is until he's pushed down over their ancient armchair, and his hands are locked together around one of the legs, and by then it's too late.

It's a precarious position, his feet barely touching the floor, and only his dad's strong arms are keeping him and the chair from toppling over. One armrest is digging into his chest, the other one into his hips, and he feels completely off balance. It still doesn't stop him from trying to escape. If he could just topple the chair over, he'd be free. His hands would still be cuffed together in front of him, but it would be a start.

His dad has one hand on the small of his back, and the other on his neck, and he pushes down while Jughead struggles, let's him tire himself out. The really humiliating part is that it _works_. Jughead is breathing heavily, still furious, but unable to do anything about it, and his dad is still holding him down, not giving an inch.

“What the fuck?” he says. Then he says it again, because seriously, “what the fuck?”

“You can't keep doing shit like this, Jug,” his dad says. He sounds tired. “One of these days you're gonna get yourself killed.”

“I know what I'm doing,” he spits out.

FP shakes Jughead by the scruff of his neck, like he's a disobedient puppy.

“This stops now, you hear, boy?”

The hand on his back moves, around to his front, and then to the fly of his jeans, and Jughead swallows audibly, because this is new, this is definitely new, and he's terrified, but also a little excited, and that? That's the scariest part.

His dad flicks the button open, and then his rough hands are dragging Jughead's jeans down his legs along with his underwear, leaving him tied up and bare-assed. Jughead's face feels fire-engine hot, and he resumes his struggling, because none of this is okay anymore – not his position, not the fact that his dad just stripped him naked from the waist down, and certainly not that a small shameful part of him felt a frisson of excitement when his dad's hand brushed against his naked thigh.

He still doesn't _understand_ , and he keeps on not understanding throughout his dad giving his ass a quick caress and then moving his hand away like he's been _burned_ , throughout him telling him to _count_ (count what?); and then his dad's hand smacks down on his ass, hard, and suddenly Jughead understands.

His blood runs cold, and, “this is not happening”, keeps whirring in his mind like a mantra, but clearly it _is_ happening, because FP's hand keeps coming down, hard enough to jostle him.

“I thought I told you to count, boy,” FP grits out, and it's almost a relief to hear how husky his voice is; proof that it's not just Jughead's world that's being upended right now.

“One!” Jughead shouts, when his palm makes contact again. It stings, but it's bearable. 

Two to ten goes by in a daze. His dad still has one hand clamped around Jughead's neck, and that one restraining touch somehow has somehow become a relief. 

Jughead keeps counting, but he wonders to what end. Is there an end to this? He's too afraid to find out what will happen if he stops counting, so he keeps on calling out the numbers.

It's starting to hurt now, his skin feeling hot where his dad's hand falls, the stinging no longer receding between smacks.

When he reaches thirty, his eyes start tearing up, and he tries so hard to keep from crying, but it really hurts now. His ass feels swollen, and he wonders if he'll even be able to sit down tomorrow.

When he reaches forty, he's sobbing for real, blubbering really, and the humiliating way his voice cracks makes it so much worse, because that means he can't even pretend that his dad hasn't noticed that he's crying like a child, unrestrained and graceless.

At fifty, he's begging, chanting “please, no more, please, dad, I'll be good, please,” in between sobs, and when he realizes he's forgotten to count, he panics, shouting “fifty!” and struggling against his dad's grip for the first time since the spanking started.

It takes him a while to realize that his ordeal is over. His dad is hushing him now, one hand in his hair, petting him, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“Shh, sweetheart,” his dad croons. “You did good, boy, you did so good,” and Jughead cries even harder, because his dad doesn't sound angry anymore. Just soft, and concerned.

He feels like a puppet with his strings cut off, and when his dad kneels down in front of him to unlock the cuffs, he doesn't move from his position. He doesn't think he can. His dad's warm and familiar brown eyes meet his and it takes all he has just to hide his face from him.

“None of that now,” FP says, so soft. He reaches out and caresses Jughead's cheek, and, despite himself, Jughead leans into the touch. 

His dad stands up, and for one terrifying moment Jughead thinks he's just going to leave him here, hurt and humiliated and alone, but instead FP lifts him up, cradling him to his strong chest and carrying him to the bedroom.

He's carefully lowered down onto the bed, and then his dad undresses him completely. Jughead doesn't fight him. Lets him remove his boots, lets him pull off his jeans and underwear, still tangled around his knees. It feels right, he thinks, obediently lifting his arms so his dad can pull off his flannel shirt and t-shirt. The beanie gets caught in the shirt when it's pulled over his head, but that's okay too. It's a paradox, but he feels less naked like this than he did in the living room. 

His dad lies down next to him, allows Jughead to curl up against him, limpet-like, one leg thrown over his thigh, arms hugging his waist almost desperately, his head nudging up against FP's chin.

FP's arm goes around his shoulder like it belongs there, warm and comforting. Jughead feels warm all over. His ass is burning, and he hides his face against his dad's neck when he thinks about it. 

His dad brushes his bangs away, tucks the hair behind his ear. 

“I can't lose you, Jug. It almost killed me, when the Ghoulies got you. I can't do that again.”

Jughead feels small, and dumb, and selfish. He cuddles closer to his dad, let's the comforting scent of his shampoo and detergent fill his nostrils.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, and is rewarded with his dad pressing a kiss to his forehead.

His dad pulls the comforter over him, and Jughead closes his eyes, lets himself sink into exhaustion the way his body wants, lets his dad rub comforting circles on his back until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final line is crossed.

When Jughead wakes up, he's alone. He feels groggy and disoriented at first, but the soreness on his backside serves as a very effective wake-up call. It's still light outside, so he can't have been asleep for much longer than an hour. Outside, someone is revving their bike; that was probably what woke him up.

His dad is gone. From the bed, and probably from the trailer too. He's collected Jughead's clothes from the floor and put them in a pile at the foot of the bed, his beanie resting on top.

Jughead sits up, wincing at the added pressure it puts on his ass. There's a chill in the air that he didn't notice before, and it's with great reluctance that he clambers off the bed. Putting his bare feet on the cold floor is unpleasant, but necessary.

He doesn't get dressed. Just pads to the bathroom. Pees, washes his face. His eyes are a little swollen, but it's not obvious that he's been crying. He's struck by a terrible sense of curiosity, so he tries to peer over his shoulder to see what his ass looks like. He's never been spanked before, and the purple bruises blooming on his reddened skin takes him by surprise. In the porn he's seen, there's usually hand prints, but then again, he thinks, those spankings were performed with aesthetics in mind. His dad did it to teach him a lesson, and, remembering the way he caressed him before that first slap, possibly for selfish reasons as well.

Thoughtfully, he rubs the largest bruise. It aches a little, but it's a dull ache. A reminder. 

He drinks some water, then he goes back to bed. Puts the pile of clothes on a chair and climbs in under the covers. 

His dad left with only the clothes on his back, so he'll be back. He probably expects Jughead to be long gone by then. Instead, he'll find Jughead dozing in bed. “Surprise!” Jughead thinks to himself, a little wryly. 

It's harder to go to sleep this time, without his dad to cuddle up to. The pillow he hugs to his chest isn't nearly as good, and the heavy covers are warmer than the blanket, but they don't feel as comforting as his dad's arm around his shoulder did. 

The next time Jughead wakes up it's to the soothing feeling of his dad scratching his scalp.

FP is perched on the bed, still wearing his leather jacket over his clothes. He must have gone straight to the bedroom when he came home from wherever he'd been off to – probably not a bar, because he's not smelling of alcohol, and Jughead feels a small flash of pride at that. His dad really is trying to do better.

“Thought you'd be gone by now,” FP says, a little wistfully. “Pretty sure that's what I deserve.”

Jughead sits up, the covers pooling around his waist. He feels _bold_. Grabs FP's hand before he can pull it away.

“What about what I deserve?”

FP opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“You didn't have to undress me,” Jughead says. “You didn't have to _spank_ me. If you wanted to hurt me, there are other ways you could have done that.”

He meets his father's startled gaze. “That's not really something you do to teenagers.”

“No,” FP agrees, wide-eyed.

“Because of the connotations.” 

“Yeah.”

He squeezes FP's hand.

“So tell me, _dad_ , why did you do it?”

His dad looks terrified, but Jughead presses on. This is too important.

“I think I've earned the truth, don't you agree?” he says, soft.

His dad exhales, shakily.

“I wanted to.” Three little words, forced out between gritted teeth, but it's all the confirmation Jughead needs.

“Okay”, he says, nodding to himself. “Okay.”

His dad looks _destroyed_ , and like he's gonna bolt at any second, and that's not what Jughead wants. Not even close.

“Since we're being honest,” Jughead says. “I felt excited. When you pulled down my pants.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Because of the connotations.”

He gets up on his knees, noting with pleasure that his dad has to struggle to keep his eyes locked on his _face_. He really does feel like a serpent right now, with his prey seemingly frozen in front of him. He leans forward, and his dad... doesn't move. Just passively watches as Jughead's face looms closer to his. 

Idly, he wonders if his dad kisses with his eyes open. Jughead doesn't, his eyes falling close almost of their own volition as his lips finally meet his dad's.

FP's lips are chapped, but pliable, and they open easily for Jughead. When he slips in his tongue, FP sucks on it, startling a moan from Jughead. That simple act seems to shake him from his daze, because suddenly Jughead is no longer in control of the kiss. 

FP brings his hands to cup Jughead's face, tilting his head the way he wants it, nipping on Jughead's lip, and growling when Jughead whimpers in response. His tongue is slick and demanding in Jughead's mouth, and Jughead clutches desperately at his leather jacket as he's kissed.

He knows his dad was a total player when he was younger, and he wonders if this is how all his dad's conquests felt; like they were being _claimed_. 

FP trails kisses down his neck, sucks a mark on his throat while he's lazily thumbing Jughead's nipples into hard peaks. Jughead clutches at his hair and moans, practically pushing his chest into his dad's face. His dad chuckles darkly, and leans down, taking a nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue and sucking on it until it's puffy and red, glistening with his saliva.

Jughead's cock is aching with the need for touch, for friction.

“Please,” he whimpers.

“Give me a sec,” FP mumbles, and then he shuffles them around on the bed until he's sitting up against the headrest, with Jughead straddling his jean-clad thigh, his hands like brands on Jughead's waist.

He kisses him again, deep and possessing, and Jughead rolls his hips, helpless and hopeless, the relief of having a hard thigh to work his dick against almost making him sob. 

What a picture the two of them must make; his dad, fully dressed, even wearing his _jacket_ , and Jughead, naked and hard, mindlessly chasing his pleasure, his spine moving in a sinuous arc as he rides his daddy's thigh. It should probably be humiliating, but Jughead feels liberated. He's _earned_ this; earned his dad's tongue in his mouth, his rough hands at his waist, earned the bruises he's left on his ass. 

He comes like that, against his dad's thigh, staining his jeans with his come, panting into his mouth. 

He has to force himself away. It's so very tempting to just let his dad hold him for a while, lean against FP's chest while he comes down from his orgasm, but he's not done yet. He wants to damn them both.

He gets between FP's knees, and gets to work on his pants. The buttons open easily, and FP helpfully lifts his ass off the bed so Jughead can pull his jeans and underwear off.

FP's uncut, just like Jughead is, but he's bigger. It would be intimidating, if he didn't want it so much.

He thinks again of all the women his dad has fucked. Hopes he won't be disappointed at Jughead's lack of experience.

“Don't expect any miracles,” he says, aiming for 'gruff' but mostly sounding breathless.

His dad laughs, and reaches out a shaky hand to caress Jughead's face.

“Like you could ever disappoint me,” he says.

Emboldened, Jughead bends down and sucks at the head. His dad grabs at his hair, and Jughead moans around the dick in his mouth, feeling slutty and reveling in it.

He bobs his head up and down, trying to get more into his mouth at every pass. His dad's pulling lightly at his hair now, and he likes the way it makes his scalp tingle. He doesn't think he's ready to deep-throat him, but he uses one hand to caress the parts he can't get at with his mouth, the other to balance himself with against the bed. He's got a good rhythm going, his dad thrusting carefully up into his mouth in counterpoint, and he thinks he could get lost in this, in giving his dad this pleasure. He wonders if his jaw will be sore tomorrow.

“Juggie-”

It's a warning, and Jughead considers pulling off, having his dad come on his chest or his face instead, but his curiosity wins out, and he keeps sucking. 

His dad comes with a grunt, spurting in Jughead's mouth, salty and slimy and kind of unpleasant, but Jughead swallows it all. He'll get used to it, he decides. 

It's worth it anyway, for the way his dad hauls him up and praises him, calls him a perfect and beautiful and kisses the taste of himself off his lips.


End file.
